World Backup Day Quotes

few years later, Demeter took a vacation to the beach. She was walking along, enjoying the solitude and the fresh sea air, when Poseidon happened to spot her. Being a sea god, he tended to notice pretty ladies walking along the beach. He appeared out of the waves in his best green robes, with his trident in his hand and a crown of seashells on his head. (He was sure that the crown made him look irresistible.) “Hey, girl,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “You must be the riptide, ’cause you sweep me off my feet.” He’d been practicing that pickup line for years. He was glad he finally got to use it. Demeter was not impressed. “Go away, Poseidon.” “Sometimes the sea goes away,” Poseidon agreed, “but it always comes back. What do you say you and me have a romantic dinner at my undersea palace?” Demeter made a mental note not to park her chariot so far away. She really could’ve used her two dragons for backup. She decided to change form and get away, but she knew better than to turn into a snake this time. I need something faster, she thought. Then she glanced down the beach and saw a herd of wild horses galloping through the surf. That’s perfect! Demeter thought. A horse! Instantly she became a white mare and raced down the beach. She joined the herd and blended in with the other horses. Her plan had serious flaws. First, Poseidon could also turn into a horse, and he did—a strong white stallion. He raced after her. Second, Poseidon had created horses. He knew all about them and could control them. Why would a sea god create a land animal like the horse? We’ll get to that later. Anyway, Poseidon reached the herd and started pushing his way through, looking for Demeter—or rather sniffing for her sweet, distinctive perfume. She was easy to find. Demeter’s seemingly perfect camouflage in the herd turned out to be a perfect trap. The other horses made way for Poseidon, but they hemmed in Demeter and wouldn’t let her move. She got so panicky, afraid of getting trampled, that she couldn’t even change shape into something else. Poseidon sidled up to her and whinnied something like Hey, beautiful. Galloping my way? Much to Demeter’s horror, Poseidon got a lot cuddlier than she wanted. These days, Poseidon would be arrested for that kind of behavior. I mean…assuming he wasn’t in horse form. I don’t think you can arrest a horse. Anyway, back in those days, the world was a rougher, ruder place. Demeter couldn’t exactly report Poseidon to King Zeus, because Zeus was just as bad. Months later, a very embarrassed and angry Demeter gave birth to twins. The weirdest thing? One of the babies was a goddess; the other one was a stallion. I’m not going to even try to figure that out. The baby girl was named Despoine, but you don’t hear much about her in the myths. When she grew up, her job was looking after Demeter’s temple, like the high priestess of corn magic or something. Her baby brother, the stallion, was named Arion. He grew up to be a super-fast immortal steed who helped out Hercules and some other heroes, too. He was a pretty awesome horse, though I’m not sure that Demeter was real proud of having a son who needed new horseshoes every few months and was constantly nuzzling her for apples. At this point, you’d think Demeter would have sworn off those gross, disgusting men forever and joined Hestia in the Permanently Single Club. Strangely, a couple of months later, she fell in love with a human prince named Iasion (pronounced EYE-son, I think). Just shows you how far humans had come since Prometheus gave them fire. Now they could speak and write. They could brush their teeth and comb their hair. They wore clothes and occasionally took baths. Some of them were even handsome enough to flirt with goddesses.

In 1898 the clouds of war between Spain and the United States accumulated over Cuba. President McKinley decided to deploy the battleship USS Maine to Havana, to insure the safety of Americans. As a backup, other ships were deployed to Key West and many other hot spots around the world involving Spain. Most Americans allied themselves with the Cuban people, and identified their movement with our American Revolutionary War. The arrival of the battleship Maine in Havana harbor with only 18 hours of advanced warning was contrary to diplomatic convention. At 9:40 p.m. on February 15, 1898, a massive explosion sank the ship while she was at anchor and took the lives of 268 sailors. Although the cause of the explosion was never proven to be sabotage, and was most likely caused by a smoldering fire in one of the ship’s coal bunkers, “Remember the Maine, To Hell with Spain!” became an American battle cry. What was termed “yellow journalism” had fired up the American public so much, that on April 11, 1898, President McKinley asked Congress for authority to send troops to Cuba to support the Cuban people in their revolt against Spain. The situation spun out of control when Spain declared war on the United States on April 23, 1898, and in turn, Washington declared war on Spain two days later.

The Heir and the Spare – there was no judgement about it, but also no ambiguity. I was the shadow, the support, the Plan B. I was brought into the world in case something happened to Willy. I was summoned to provide back-up, distraction, diversion and, if necessary, a spare part. Kidney, perhaps. Blood transfusion. Speck of bone marrow. This was all made explicitly clear to me from the start of life’s journey and regularly reinforced thereafter. I was twenty the first time I heard the story of what Pa allegedly said to Mummy the day of my birth: Wonderful! Now you’ve given me an Heir and a Spare – my work is done. A joke. Presumably. On the other hand, minutes after delivering this bit of high comedy, Pa was said to have gone off to meet his girlfriend. So. Many a true word spoken in jest.

Ken Wharfe In 1987, Ken Wharfe was appointed a personal protection officer to Diana. In charge of the Princess’s around-the-clock security at home and abroad, in public and in private, Ken Wharfe became a close friend and loyal confidant who shared her most private moments. After Diana’s death, Inspector Wharfe was honored by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace and made a Member of the Victorian Order, a personal gift of the sovereign for his loyal service to her family. His book, Diana: Closely Guarded Secret, is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller. He is a regular contributor with the BBC, ITN, Sky News, NBC, CBS, and CNN, participating in numerous outside broadcasts and documentaries for BBC--Newsnight, Channel 4 News, Channel 5 News, News 24, and GMTV. My memory of Diana is not her at an official function, dazzling with her looks and clothes and the warmth of her manner, or even of her offering comfort among the sick, the poor, and the dispossessed. What I remember best is a young woman taking a walk in a beautiful place, unrecognized, carefree, and happy. Diana increasingly craved privacy, a chance “to be normal,” to have the opportunity to do what, in her words, “ordinary people” do every day of their lives--go shopping, see friends, go on holiday, and so on--away from the formality and rituals of royal life. As someone responsible for her security, yet understanding her frustration, I was sympathetic. So when in the spring of the year in which she would finally be separated from her husband, Prince Charles, she yet again raised the suggestion of being able to take a walk by herself, I agreed that such a simple idea could be realized. Much of my childhood had been spent on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset, a county in southern England approximately 120 miles from London; I remembered the wonderful sandy beaches of Studland Bay, on the approach to Poole Harbour. The idea of walking alone on miles of almost deserted sandy beach was something Diana had not even dared dream about. At this time she was receiving full twenty-four-hour protection, and it was at my discretion how many officers should be assigned to her protection. “How will you manage it, Ken? What about the backup?” she asked. I explained that this venture would require us to trust each other, and she looked at me for a moment and nodded her agreement. And so, early one morning less than a week later, we left Kensington Palace and drove to the Sandbanks ferry at Poole in an ordinary saloon car. As we gazed at the coastline from the shabby viewing deck of the vintage chain ferry, Diana’s excitement was obvious, yet not one of the other passengers recognized her. But then, no one would have expected the most photographed woman in the world to be aboard the Studland chain ferry on a sunny spring morning in May. As the ferry docked after its short journey, we climbed back into the car and then, once the ramp had been lowered, drove off in a line of cars and service trucks heading for Studland and Swanage. Diana was driving, and I asked her to stop in a sand-covered area about half a mile from the ferry landing point. We left the car and walked a short distance across a wooded bridge that spanned a reed bed to the deserted beach of Shell Bay. Her simple pleasure at being somewhere with no one, apart from me, knowing her whereabouts was touching to see. Diana looked out toward the Isle of Wight, anxious by now to set off on her walk to the Old Harry Rocks at the western extremity of Studland Bay. I gave her a personal two-way radio and a sketch map of the shoreline she could expect to see, indicating a landmark near some beach huts at the far end of the bay, a tavern or pub, called the Bankes Arms, where I would meet her.

One day the tables turn. You’re living your dream life, and those who said you couldn't are stuck in their own excuses. One day the tables turn. You wake up in a home you love, bought with the money they said you'd never make. One day the tables turn. You go from feeling like a backup plan to being someone's first and only choice. One day the tables turn. You’re leaving footprints around the world, and those who doubted you are still trapped in their comfort zones. One day the tables turn. You’re celebrated for your uniqueness, and those who mocked you are now trying to copy your style. One day the tables turn. You’re surrounded by genuine love, and those who played with your heart are left alone with their regret. One day the tables turn. You find true happiness, and those who once undermined your joy are stuck in their own discontent.

This wasn’t merely how the press referred to us—though it was definitely that. This was shorthand often used by Pa and Mummy and Grandpa. And even Granny. The Heir and the Spare—there was no judgment about it, but also no ambiguity. I was the shadow, the support, the Plan B. I was brought into the world in case something happened to Willy. I was summoned to provide backup, distraction, diversion and, if necessary, a spare part. Kidney, perhaps. Blood transfusion. Speck of bone marrow. This was all made explicitly clear to me from the start of life’s journey and regularly reinforced thereafter. I was twenty the first time I heard the story of what Pa allegedly said to Mummy the day of my birth: Wonderful! Now you’ve given me an Heir and a Spare—my work is done. A joke. Presumably. On the other hand, minutes after delivering this bit of high comedy, Pa was said to have gone off to meet with his girlfriend. So. Many a true word spoken in jest.

I own just two 5 dollar tshirts - one is my regular wear, another my backup for washdays. And for my travels I own two 10 dollar shirts and two 20 dollar jeans, which are also used for my book covers. I don't need more, I don't buy more. This is not minimalism, it's called self-regulation - the lack of which has led to the shallow, judgmental, privilege-craving prick of a society we live in today. It's not about saving money, it's about humanizing money, by using it wisely, not just for individual benefit, but collective benefit. Buy the things you need the most, save a little for rainy days, and use the rest to lift up the fallen. Any citizen who masters this simple humanitarian habit, is no longer obligated to pay taxes to the government. And when enough citizens of the world make it the mantra of their life, not just to lift themselves, but each other, the governments of the world are automatically rendered obsolete. Government is funded by the people - then the governments use those funds to manufacture war, in order to further sustain the democratic cashflow that keeps them in business. Therefore, when people pull their funds and redirect them themselves, towards actual, tangible, humanitarian initiatives, there isn't going to be a government. It's only the humanitarian indifference of the citizens that keeps governments alive, that in turn keep borders and wars alive. Once the citizens are actually, genuinely, nontheoretically accountable of the welfare of society, beyond the prehistoric paradigm peddled by the state, all Capitol, Kremlin and White Hall will crumble to dust.

Promulgators of TMT [Terror Management Theory] believe that a universal dispersion of their ideas will make people more tolerant of the alien worldviews of others and not kill them because those worldviews remind them of how ephemeral or unfounded their own may be. The paradox of this belief is that it requires everyone to abandon the very techniques of terror management by which TMT claims we have so far managed our terror, or some of it. As usual, though, there is an upbeat way out for Terror Management theorists in that they argue "the best worldviews are ones that value tolerance of different others, that are flexible and open to modification, and that offer paths to self esteem minimally likely to encourage hurting others". Of course, this is just another worldview that brandishes itself as the best worldview in the world, meaning that it would agitate others with a sense of how ephemeral or unfounded their own may be and cause them to retaliate. But Terror Management theorists also have a backup plan, which is that in the future we will not need terror management and instead will discover that "serious confrontations with mortality can have positive liberating effects, facilitating real growth and life satisfaction". There is no arguing that humanity may someday reap the benefits of a serious confrontation with mortality. While waiting for that day, we still have genocide as the ultimate insurance of our worldviews.

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The ink doesn't wash off, but I thought my Bitcoin was gone forever. I'd stashed $130,000 worth of crypto away to turn my tattoo parlor into a fantasy parlor—black walls, neon lights, the hum of needles mixed with classic rock music. But fate is cruelly ironic. One night, having spent an eight-hour shift etching half a snake wrapped around a dagger, I came home to find the shop robbed. Cash register emptied out, machines thrown around like playthings, and the worst of all, my phone stolen. That phone had my 2FA codes, the sacred keys to my digital riches. Panic washed over me like road rash on bare flesh. Without 2FA, my Bitcoin was more secure than a welded-shut vault. I plunged into horror. Every hour out of reach was like watching a masterpiece rot in the sun. Desperate, I griped to a client at a cover-up session. He had a Bitcoin logo stitched on his sleeve, alongside a skull laughing maniacally in a Digital hat. He leaned back in the chair, grinning like an old road captain, and said, "Brother, you need Digital Tech Guard Recovery. Those guys do magic." So, taking his tip, I did call them up. From the very first phone call, they were sharper than a new needle. They were in the business—talking carrier records, blockchain synchronization, and security breaches like old truckers swapping stories of carburetor war battles and close calls. They labored fast. Five days went by before I got the call. "We got it," the technician said. My heart was revving like a helicopter engine. My Bitcoin was once more in my hands, safe and sound. The Digitals did not cease. They guided me through backups, multi-device login, and offline wallets. "One key in your pocket, another in the wind," they said. Biker street smarts meets crypto security. Now, my studio is thriving. That neon sign? It glows brighter than ever. And on my forearm? A new tattoo: a Digital hat, with flames and Bitcoin logos surrounding it. A reminder that in this world, both on the road and on the internet, it's not about not falling, it's about knowing who you can call to pick you up. Digital Tech Guard Recovery: They're by your side, even when the ride gets rocky WhatsApp: +1 (443) 859 - 2886   Email @ digitaltechguard.com Telegram: digitaltechguard.com   Website link: digitaltechguard.com